TuesdayNights

by Linda Rae Sande

  The girl’s gaze wandered off for a moment. “My employment may be only temporary. Although my father drives Mr. Cunningham’s coach, Jeffers says I must prove myself before he’s willing to add me to the household staff on a permanent basis,” Sarah explained with a sad face.

  Mr. White is her father! Olivia realized then, deciding she rather liked the daughter. “Then we shall just have to be sure you prove yourself,” Olivia replied lightly. “Today, I must meet the staff, come up with menus for all the meals this week, and familiarize myself with the workings of the household.”

  Sarah quirked her face. “A simple muslin gown, then,” she stated with a nod, hurrying to the clothes press to search for one. “And I’ll put up your hair in a top knot and iron some ringlets for around your face,” she added, pulling out a peach pastel gown and eying it favorably.

  “Yes, what you said,” Olivia agreed, stepping out of the bed and to the area behind the dressing screen.

  “How can you have so little regard for marriage?” Edward asked of his best friend. He looked miserable as he sat in the corner of the library’s settee, the festive floral pattern of its upholstery at odds with his mood.

  Michael eyed Edward with a grimace. “I have a great deal of respect for the institution of marriage,” he answered carefully. I do, really, he tried to convince himself. His parents had seemed quite happy in the early years of their union. His mother, Violet, had given birth to two boys and a girl in just five years. She was doted on by their father for many years, although these days she seemed to spend less time in Horsham, more time at the house in Cavendish Square, and was a frequent traveler to the Continent. Meanwhile, his father sequestered himself at Cunningham Park in Horsham when he wasn’t in London for Parliament. “The timing, though... I thought I had more time,” Michael added quietly, remembering why he’d initially ignored his mother’s pleas to marry. By now, his brother had surely spent every pence of his allowance in gaming hells and at brothels and was probably working through the current earnings of the Cunningham viscountcy. At some point, unless his father cut off his brother or figured out a way to make their lands in Horsham earn more, the viscountcy would go bankrupt. And it didn’t help that his mother was spending who knew how much to keep herself happy and fashionably dressed.

  An undignified snort answered him. Michael gave Edward a raised eyebrow. “’Tis true,” Michael responded. “I needed time to build up these investments so there will be some money in the Cunningham treasury,” he said defensively. “And I’m of the opinion it’s still too soon to be ... married.” And last night was a perfect example.

  Instead of dining at the men’s club as they originally planned, he and Edward had treated themselves to a dinner at the Clarendon Hotel, Michael picking up the tab in honor of his business deal with Harold Waterford. He thought of the awkward moments when he wondered if he should have invited Olivia. He felt a bit of sadness at the thought of her dining alone at the townhouse. And yet, she had seemed quite satisfied to stay home, practically pushing them out the library door when Jeffers announced that the coach was waiting.

  When Edward’s eyebrows nearly disappeared into this hairline, Michael gave him a look of puzzlement. “What is it?” he wondered.

  “I know exactly why you married her!” Edward exclaimed, indignation thick in his voice.

  He was sure it was about money.

  Michael furrowed his brows and stared at his best friend. “I had a perfectly good reason to marry her,” he finally answered, remembering the deadline he had set for himself to placate his mother. But when Edward’s look of disgust didn’t change, Michael’s brows furrowed. “Wait. Why do you think I married her?”

  Edward was up and out of the settee in an instant, his finger coming within inches of Michael’s nose. “The money you’d make, of course,” he accused, shaking the finger for effect.

  Michael leaned back in an effort to avoid the fingertip that was about to make contact with his nose. “Money?” Michael repeated, a look of confusion on his face. “Her dowry was acceptable, of course, but by no means ... by no means was it a reason to give up my freedom,” he countered angrily. Although he had to admit the dowry was far more generous than he would have expected from marrying a genteel woman from the country, especially one who apparently didn’t have direct ties to the ton. Had it not been for him, she would have become a governess, for goodness sake!

  Crossing his arms, Edward regarded Michael with the look of disgust still firmly in place. “Not her dowry, you dolt!” When Michael’s look of confusion stayed in place, Edward added, “The money from the bet!”

  Michael stared at his friend for several seconds, an uneasiness creeping over him. Damn! He remembered! He already regretted the day he had entered into that damn bet at White’s. He wondered why he had mentioned the agreement he had made with this mother to Sir Richard, but he did. Incredulous, and more than a bit amused at the claim, Sir Richard shook his head and said, “Any other son of a viscount would hold out until he was thirty,” he stated with a smirk. Then he placed his name and a one-hundred pound wager in the betting book at White’s – a bet that stated that Michael would miss the deadline and owe him one pound. If Michael did marry by the deadline, he would win the hundred pounds. Over time, several more members added their wagers to that bet, driving up the pot to what must be – what had Arthur Huntington said? – several thousand pounds. Perhaps more, Michael realized, if word of his marriage didn’t spread very fast. This should be the night he would show his marriage certificate and begin to collect the winnings from the bet he had accepted so many years ago.

  He wondered how he could keep news of the bet from reaching Olivia, though. The spirit in which the bet was made was quite innocent, he remembered, but she might be left believing that he had married her only to collect what could be a small fortune. He had forgotten about the bet for several years, but he was sure more bets had been added to those already in the book – he hadn’t attended most of last Season’s balls, nor had he publicly courted a woman. Ever.

  He hadn’t needed to, though.

  Waterford had practically promised him his daughter, a candidate kept in reserve all these years and quite happily in the back of his mind until he conjured her for an occasional fantasy. None of his friends in London knew of her existence, of course. No wonder the men at White’s have been showing more interest in me than usual these past few months. It wasn’t because of the occasional bruises he sported on his jaw or around his eyes after a spirited round of bare knuckle fighting. They were deciding whether or not to add their names and wagers to the bet!

  “I forgot about the bet,” Michael lied, a slight smile coming on. Huntington had reminded him of it just a couple of weeks ago. “But, thank you for reminding me. I shall have to pay a visit to White’s to show my marriage certificate and collect my winnings,” he stated as his grin grew larger. And somehow keep Olivia from finding out, he thought suddenly.

  Incensed, Edward took a step back and sank into the settee, his expression showing disappointment. “You are so lucky,” he murmured, his elbows planted on his knees as he hung his head.

  Rolling his eyes, Michael sighed. “There is nothing lucky about having to marry to win money,” he stated as he moved to the sideboard and poured himself a brandy. He tossed the contents of the glass into his mouth and savored the smoky flavor for a moment before swallowing.

  “You could marry whomever you wanted,” Edward whispered, his sadness bringing a pall to the library. A sigh escaped him. “I could not. At least, not until this week.” He said it so quietly, Michael did not hear him. Raising his head to look at his friend, Edward asked, “So, if it wasn’t for the money, then, pray tell, why did you marry Olivia?”

  Michael took a breath before he started to answer and then stopped. He had made a promise. He’d accepted a bet. She was still available. He loved her.

  But would he have
married Olivia if there had been no deadline?

  Eventually, if she were still available, he supposed. And when would that be? Perhaps he would be more accepting of a marriage when he was past thirty, when all his investments were paying acceptable dividends, and he was sure his brother was no longer costing his father’s estate.

  But even as he considered the practical aspects of marriage, he remembered the most important reason. “She is the only one I have ever considered as a wife,” he blurted suddenly, the words surprising him when he realized he’d spoken them aloud.

  Edward sat up straight in the settee, equally surprised by the admission. “Indeed?” he questioned, not the least bit convinced. “You have a fine way of showing it,” he murmured unhappily.

  Grimacing at his friend’s words, Michael sighed. “I will make it up to her at some point,” he said quietly. “I am sure she despises me,” he added with a bit more volume to his voice, his shoulders sagging a bit.

  Edward frowned at the comment. “She hides it well, then,” he stated, moving to the sideboard and pouring himself a brandy. He glowered at Michael just before he took a sip. “Wait,” he said as he regarded his friend with a raised eyebrow. “What makes you think she despises you?” Even as he asked the question, he considered the most logical explanation and his eyes widened. “Oh, God, no!” he shouted.

  Michael took a step back, stunned by his friend’s outburst. “No ... what?” he whispered, afraid of what Edward might know.

  Or what incorrect conclusion he had jumped to at that moment.

  “She knows you bed her sister!”

  Michael visibly flinched and violently shook his head from side to side. “She does not, because I do not!” he argued with an annoyed glance at his friend. “How many times do I have to tell you that I was merely Eloisa’s protector? And she has been quite accomplished at keeping our arrangement a secret from her family,” he stated confidently, not bothering to add that Eloisa was no longer in need of his protection. Arthur Huntington had that honor now. “Olivia despises me because I ...” he allowed the admission to trail off as he moved to refill his brandy snifter. Because I am a rake, he thought, not ever having thought of himself in those terms before. He’d never done anything to earn the moniker. Not until last Tuesday night.

  Edward’s eyebrow arched again. “Do tell. You know how I love a good story.” He returned to the settee, obviously eager to hear whatever news Michael was about to divulge.

  Rolling his eyes, Michael sunk into the nearest chair. “I didn’t have time to court her. I didn’t have time to properly propose. And I certainly didn’t have time for a wedding to be arranged,” he explained quickly. “So I took my sister’s advice.”

  There. He could blame it all on Elizabeth.

  The look on Edward’s face was so comical that Michael had to suppress a grin. “Pray tell!” the taller man demanded, his eyes wide with curiosity.

  Michael sighed, thinking perhaps he shouldn’t give Edward all the details. He would never hear the end of it. “I went to Olivia’s bedchamber, climbed into her bed, and waited for her to make my presence known to the rest of the household. Worked like a charm. We were married two days later.”

  When no sound came from Edward’s direction, Michael looked up to find the man staring down at him. Was that a look of wonderment? Adoration? Or astonishment, perhaps? And how the hell had Edward managed to get up from the settee so quickly and make his way to stand before Michael in what could have only been one second? When he was quite thoroughly foxed?

  “You rake!” Edward accused, his mouth opening and closing just like Lord Everly’s tropical fish. “What a brilliant scheme! Perhaps I could do that to marry Anna,” he suggested, his face taking on a decidedly happier expression.

  Michael shook his head. “I doubt it would work in her situation. Anna isn’t the daughter of a very wealthy businessman,” he countered, a bit impatient with his friend’s repeated confessions of love for a girl he had no hope of marrying given his station in life – and her lack of one.

  And given the fact that she was missing.

  “I love her.”

  “I know. Half of London knows. And now that you’re no longer the ‘spare’ in the line of succession, you could marry her if you really wanted to,” Michael offered, thinking that a second son of an earl should have a bit of latitude when it came to his choice of a spouse. Edward’s status as the spare in the ‘heir and a spare’ scenario had changed with the birth of his nephew the week before.

  His mother was rather fond of using the phrase when she described her handsome sons. The fact that there were three daughters in between the heir and spare was never brought up. At least none of them had been presented to Michael as contenders for the position of his wife, although the youngest had held a candle for him for several years before finally agreeing to marry another. The Sewards were quite choosy in who could be their sons-in-law, marrying off the girls to the heirs of two earls and a duke.

  Edward took on an expression of misery. “I’ve no idea where she is,” he said quietly, referring to the love of his life. “I have searched every modiste in Oxford Street, every modiste in Bond Street, and half the modistes in New Bond Street,” he murmured quietly. “This week, I’m going to search the other half.”

  Michael sighed, thinking he and Edward had had this same discussion on more than a few occasions in the recent past. Edward’s birthday. “You could hire a Bow Street Runner to find her,” he suggested, despite figuring Edward would never go against his parents’ decree regarding who he would marry. “Or you might try an advertisement in The Times.”

  Edward shook his head and seemed to fall deeper into his depression. He had always put responsibility to family and the earldom first. “Perhaps she will find me,” he said hopefully.

  It was Michael’s turn to snort.

  Will he bed me tonight? Olivia wondered as she finished primping in front of the cheval mirror. She had dismissed Sarah earlier, wanting to spend some time by herself after a busy day of learning about the household, meeting the staff, and touring the house and grounds. There had been menus to plan and, given the condition of some of the common rooms in the house, a list of repairs and painting projects to compile.

  Now she was feeling a bit anxious. After their quick marriage ceremony before the vicar, Michael had gone off with her father to continue their business meetings and then spent that Thursday night in his guest bedchamber, never asking her to join him. Nor did he visit her in her bedchamber to consummate the marriage. Probably didn’t want to revisit the scene of the crime, she considered with a quirk on her face.

  She thought of his hands again, how one had cupped her breast while the other drew back the curtain of hair from over her face. Her entire body shivered at the memory. He will have to touch me again sometime! Glancing again in the mirror, she smiled and decided she would try to make the best of it.

  How bad could it be? Her husband could one day be a viscount!

  At precisely seven-thirty, she made her way down the steps and to the library for a drink she was looking forward to very much. Upon entering the room, she found her husband and his friend settled into chairs and looking as if they if they were both deep in their cups. Neither seemed to notice her entrance, so she moved to the sideboard and was about to help herself to a glass of claret when Michael’s hand closed over hers as it gripped the bottle.

  “My apologies, Mrs. Cunningham,” he murmured quietly. “I did not hear you come in,” he said, leaning over to place a kiss on her temple. His head remained very close to her for another moment, as if he was sniffing the scent of her hair.

  Olivia could feel a flush rise when she remembered they were not alone. “I did not wish to disturb your reverie,” she answered with a slight smile, admiring his profile in the dim light. “I trust you are well?” she added in almost a whisper, not wanting to be overheard by Edwa
rd.

  Michael’s breath caught just a bit as he considered the meaning of her words. “I am quite well, thank you. And you?”

  “Very well, indeed,” Olivia remarked, smiling as Michael poured her a generous glass of wine. She took the small goblet and moved to the center of the room. “Are you still planning to join us for dinner, Mr. Seward?” she asked, deciding it was acceptable to take on the role of hostess. And she hoped the cook remembered to make enough for three. She’d mentioned the possibility in her discussion with the woman earlier that day.

  Edward exchanged a nervous glance with Michael. “I will, indeed. Thank you for asking,” he replied, rather liking the sound of the invitation to dinner in his adopted home. Turning to Michael, he said, “You didn’t tell her about me, did you?”

  Rolling his eyes, Michael shook his head and moved to join his wife. He offered her his arm and led her to the settee where he indicated she should sit. “May I get you a plate of walnuts?” he asked, ignoring Edward’s comment.

  Olivia looked over at Edward, a bit of nervousness returning. “Yes, thank you. And what did you not tell me about Mr. Seward?” she wondered as she nodded her head in Edward’s direction. It was awkward talking about a man who was in the room.

  Sighing, Michael moved to the sideboard to pour another brandy for himself and to get the walnuts. “I own the townhouse, but Edward moved in a couple of years ago,” he explained shortly, not realizing how the words might sound to a woman born and raised in the country.

  Visibly reddening as she considered the possible implication of his statement, Olivia tried hard to keep her face impassive. She might have been a chit from the country, but she’d read enough books to know that some men preferred the company of other men as opposed to women. That would certainly explain why my husband hasn’t visited me in my bedchamber, she thought, an odd sadness suddenly settling over her. I did not even think of the possibility that he might be a molly.